


all my loving

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: And He Hates That, Arctic Idiots Eating Stupid Things: A Novel, Declarations Of Love, Everybody Loves James Fitzjames, For Once: Not Sex Pollen!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: Prompt taken from the kinkmeme: "Fitzjames wants to be loved so badly, but it's that old 'careful what you wish for trope' because now EVERYONE loves him truly madly deeply* and he has to find some way to reverse it."





	all my loving

Fitzjames awoke to the sensation of someone carding a hand across his back, fingers gently scrubbing at the wrinkles in his nightshirt. His first thought was that it was a vaguely pleasant touch, then he awoke more fully, and grew annoyed. 

“Nnnh. Dundy, I swear to Christ, if you’re having me on, I’ll––”  Rolling to one side, he was surprised to see John Bridgens sitting on the edge of the bunk, with a strange, expectant light in his eyes.  “Wh – Bridgens? ‘S wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Bridgens, and drew back his hand, smiling fondly. “Did you sleep well?”

“Er. S’pose.” James was not certain if he were awake or still dreaming. Quickly, he sat up, and scrubbed the sleep from his face. “What’s th’matter?”

“Not a thing, Captain. I’m just glad you could rest,” said Bridgens, still beaming, and squeezed James’s shoulder. “You have worked too hard lately.”

Although Bridgens was often friendly and rather informal in his duties, a quality which had never bothered James in past, today the sentiment seemed rather strange when paired with such brazen intimacies.

“Think I should dress,” said James, quickly removing himself from the bed. Bridgens did not follow, and did not press for further instructions, but simply continued watching him as if his Captain were the most captivating person in the world. “Myself. I shall dress myself today.”

“Of course, Captain.”

James pulled on trousers, shirtsleeves, and the rest of his uniform without the usual attention to detail, intending to talk to Goodsir about this peculiarity as soon as possible. But the second he left his berth, and opened the door to the Great Cabin, the sheer volume of men standing outside his door startled him into full alertness.

They were not assembled for any particular reason based on a cursory glance: many held trinkets or small pouches of tobacco or various luxuries. All were deposited at his feet or into his hands the second he made eye contact with the beholder, each individual blushing and sighing and gazing at him as if he had done them the greatest favor simply by opening the door this morning. Such a display of devotion was extraordinary and even frightening.

“Men!” he boomed once his arms were laden with favors, as if they were all preparing to assemble on the quarterdeck for Divine Service. “We shall have order here this morning!”

No man seemed disturbed by this proclamation; they smiled and ducked their heads and shyly bit their lips even standing at full muster.

He turned to the nearest sailor––Evans, as it turned out. “Evans. Why have you all come to me as a group to-day?”

“To show you our appreciation, Captain,” came the breathless response. “Do you like our gifts, sir? I worked very hard on mine. Please say that you like it. I hope that you do.”

James glanced around at the sea of faces, saw equal hope and delight reflected in all their gazes. But why should they come here only to present him with tokens? What on earth could be driving such strange behavior?

“You have all come to deliver me these—these favors?”

“Yes, Captain,” they answered.

“And yet you wish for nothing in return?”

The response was deafening.  _ “No, sir!” _

“Well, I, ah, thank you for your unexpected gifts,” James continued, bewildered. “And for your kind devotion. But I must attend to my duties now, as you must attend to yours.”

Murmurs of  _ yes, sir  _ and  _ yes, Captain  _ floated through the assembled men. No protests followed this declaration.

“Dismiss,” ordered James at last, and made for the wardroom, carefully setting the pile of gifts in his arms aside on a nearby table.

He hoped to find sense and refuge over coffee and oatmeal, but it was not to be. The stewards seemed as addled as the men who had met James at his door, plying him with extra food and drink although his appetite faded more with each passing second. And  _ Erebus’s  _ officers were worse. The camaraderie of the wardroom had disappeared in favor of each man now fighting like tussling schoolboys to sit next to James, hand him a utensil, or merely stare at him while he tried to eat.

When even Doctor Stanley altered his routine to comment on James’s extraordinary and quite masculine metabolism, James fled, sputtering excuses, and sought refuge in the Great Cabin. He sat at the captain’s table for nigh on ten minutes, carefully analyzing the day’s events, until a familiar voice finally shook him from his worries.

“What’s the matter with you, then? Le Vesconte steal your breakfast?”

“Oh, Captain Crozier. Hello!” James tried not to let the relief show on his face as Crozier stepped forward, unwinding his muffler from his neck and shaking the snow from his layers before handing his slops off to Bridgens, who hung them by the brazier. “And no—I am merely in the midst of a very—”

“Sir, may I get you anything apart from coffee?”

Bridgens again. James sighed, and attempted not to snap at the man for fulfilling his duties—if with far too much  _ joie de vivre _ than usual.

“No, thank you, Bridgens. We shall be here for perhaps an hour, and are not to be disturbed in the meantime.”

“He’s acting very odd,” drawled Francis once the door closed, which made James choke and put his head down on the table.

“Christ, Francis,  _ yes,  _ I thought I was—you have seen it, then? You’ve seen all of the  _ Erebites _ this morning? Acting like—like complete—”

“Boot-licking bastards,” supplied Francis.

Finally, someone who was not affected by such maladies. James let out another deep sigh. “That is not the phrase I would use.”

“Well, I would.” Francis made a considering noise before he bit into one of the biscuits. When James risked a glance up, the  _ Terror  _ Captain gently tossed a second biscuit toward his head. It landed next to his elbow and broke in fourths. “Here. Eat that.”

A hysterical scoff bubbled up from James’s throat. “Why?”

“Because you skipped breakfast, and if I know you, you’ll skip supper, too.” A soft, intrigued noise from the sideboard. “Hmph. Good jam.”

Thank Christ Francis was being  _ normal,  _ for once, normal and grumbly and—wait. Suddenly suspicious, James raised his head, following Francis’s every movement as the  _ Terror  _ Captain poured first one cup of coffee, then two.

“Do you want sugar?” Francis asked.

“I—can get my own. Really, this is not necessary—assure you it’s—”

“Just shut up and drink it, James, for god’s sake.” Francis brought both cups back to the table, and placed James’s in front of him, before scattering a few more biscuits around the saucer. “And eat these, as well. I’ll not have my Second starve himself while there’s plenty of food aboard.”

James stared at the coffee in dawning horror. Oh, no. No, no, no. Francis was not merely pacifying him. He was being kind. Kind and friendly and—

“You—think I’m an idiot, don’t you, Francis? Foolish? Vain? Impulsive?”

He could not say what he wished to hear in answer. Normally the thought of being called less than clever, or only tolerably funny instead of witty, or pleasing instead of dashingly handsome, made his stomach twist in fear. But today James was dreading the sorts of manic, feverish replies he had got in the wardroom. He could not bear it if Francis joined that sycophantic group. Not when he had such sense and intelligence.

“I think,” said Francis after a long moment, lifting his eyes from the depths of his coffee, “you allow people to see you as such. Which is not the same as a lack of sense, but a calculated retreat from it, hm?”

James’s entire body broke out in gooseflesh. No one had ever been so fully honest with him before. “Oh.”

“But,” Francis continued, with a sudden quiet warmth to his voice, “if you did not put on at least a few airs, then you would be an entirely different man altogether. And I should probably miss that. Strange as it may seem.”

_ Good Christ. What if Francis were equally affected by this malady? _

“So you—you would say that you—like me?”

_ Now he sounded like a bloody schoolboy, oh, God in heaven, be merciful. Please, Francis, say anything but _ —

Francis held his gaze in a very purposeful manner. One eyebrow shot skywards in quizzical disdain. “What?”

“No matter. If you hate me, that is perfectly reasonable. I daresay many a man in the Admiralty has private reservations about my character, or—or perhaps other worries, you know what they are like, it’s positively primeval if you are not of a certain—”

“Will you stop babbling?” Francis demanded. His scowl softened the longer they stared at each other. “Course I bloody  _ like _ you. Why in seven hells would you think I didn’t?”

“Ah.” James’s face burned scarlet, and he was relatively certain his voice cracked as he spoke again. “Right. And I—to you, obviously. Just—apologies. I, ah—forgive me. This morning has been so strange, and I am not—the hour’s events have merely—”

“James. Eat.” After a hesitation, Francis reached out and patted James’s fingers, then withdrew. “You’ll feel better after.”

Limbs numb save for the tingling in his first two fingers, unable to conceive of a more sensible action, James put a biscuit in his mouth whole, and let Francis do the majority of the talking from that point on.

 

##

 

The next day: more of the same. 

Bridgens watched him like a hawk, directing him such soft-eyed glances and slight touches while he dressed James that it was near-impossible to relax enough for the man to shave him. James’s hands were shaking with nerves by the time his full toilette was finished, although Bridgens was a perfect gentleman.

In the wardroom, Dundy and Des Voeux nearly came to fisticuffs over who got to sit on which side of him, and were only outmaneuvered by the sudden arrival of Goodsir, who made a beeline for James and sat down in the highly-contested chair without a moment’s hesitation. He subsequently prattled so sweetly about his continued linguistic research with Lady Silence that James could not bear to turn him away.

In desperation, James retreated to his cabin again after breakfast, demanding that he was not to be disturbed. Within ten minutes, the only person senior enough to violate such orders arrived, swearing as he pulled off his slops and hung them by the brazier.

“Jesus fucking Christ, man. What’s got into you?”

“Nothing,” groaned James, and then reconsidered. “I am in a frightful mood is all.”

“Why? Your head getting too puffed up from all the compliments?”

James ducked his head to obscure the fierce blush forming on his cheeks. Awful as it was that Francis was experiencing some shade of the ongoing malady every time he visited  _ Erebus _ , at least the  _ Terror  _ Captain had the sense to recognize how stupid it was making the rest of their combined men.  _ “No.” _

“It is.” A grin was now tugging at the corners of Francis’s mouth. “If we’re not careful, you’ll inflate so much we could sail  _ you  _ back to Greenhithe.”

“Nnnnh,” whined James, and hid his red face in two hands.

“We’ll get the  _ Illustrated London News _ to fawn over a rendering of all your gifts and—”

_ “Stop.  _ Please. _ ” _

“James, I’m only teasing,” said Francis after a long moment, voice soft.

“I know.” James pulled his hands away from his face. “But I cannot make light of the men’s malaise, even now. Truthfully they seem rather in need of sympathy. And we—really ought to get down to business this morning. So no more of that.”

“All right,” came the reply. “To business, then.”

James pretended not to see the hurt in his First’s concerned expression, and kept a determined eye on his papers instead.

 

##

 

On day three, James slept little, rose two hours earlier than usual, and ended up poking around the infirmary at an ungodly hour - so early that none of its proprietors were awake.

Or so he thought.

Five minutes after determining that there were no sudden discrepancies in the medical stores—or at least none that he could tell—the door to Doctor Stanley’s berth opened and the man himself peered out. His agitated expression smoothed when he saw James standing next to the ledger.

“Ah. Good morning, Captain.”

“Doctor Stanley.” James barely glanced up from his study of the ledger. Perhaps brusqueness could be excused if his inquiry was of a professional nature. “You will pardon my early intrusion. Curiosity has got me by the tail, as it were.”

“Well. Unlike most tomcats, and as I have witnessed firsthand, you are prone to living through the most unfortunate circumstances.”

“Seem to have had that problem all my life, yes.”

James did not think his own joke was very funny, but Stanley blinked at him in a befuddled way before letting out a short, gasping laugh.

“Ah, I see. You are engaging in humour so as to put me in good spirits. Well, I am not so stuffy as to refuse your favor, sir. How may I assist you?”

Boggled, James decided not to comment further, treating this change in behavior as if it were no more than a routine interaction. “I am curious to see whether your inventory of tonics has changed much since the month previous.”

“It has not.”

“Naturally. And you have not seen any increases in illness, then? I do not speak of physical maladies here, but perhaps...an ague of the mind.”

“Sir, if you are inquiring about such topics in a personal capacity, and not in your capacity as Captain, I assure you there is no need to worry.”

“Oh, no, no, I am not the one who—”

“Common sailors may suffer from mental deficiencies, distempers, or other ills, but these are not the sorts of trials to plague men with strong minds.”

“Really, Doctor Stanley, I am not attempting to––”

“And as I have mentioned previous, you possess one of the strongest physiques in the expedition entire. Your metabolic rate is astonishing. Striated muscle fibers flexible and sturdy. Natural humours—”

“Doctor, I remain flattered, but there is no need—”

“Obviously you are well aware of your own superiority in these matters, but if you require it, I am happy to put your mind at ease through a meticulous examina—”

The clock struck eight bells; James nearly leapt over the desk in his hurry to escape the horror of an examination from a cheerful, complimentary Doctor Stanley. He would tell no one else that he vastly preferred the version of the man who kept to his berth and skulked around corners and snapped at all his patients. “No! I mean, that is not necessary, thank you. You will please pardon my hasty departure, Doctor; I have an outstanding appointment!”

 

##

 

The only other person on  _ Erebus _ who seemed unaffected by this continued oddity was not even a sailor at all. Lifting his hand to the pantry door, James knocked once before glancing around the doorframe. 

Sitting on the floor surrounded by furs, trimming her nails with a small sharp knife, was Lady Silence, who appeared to be basking in her solitude and her lack of superstitious tokens with a tremendous amount of cheer.

When she saw James, she pointed to the tray nearest her booted feet. It was full, although she had plucked out what appeared to be a small branch of rosemary from her stew, and set it untouched onto the utensils.

“You don’t like it?” he asked, gesturing to the tray in a mirror of her command.

She wrinkled her nose. _“Numaagijara.”_

“Ah.” He did not yet know enough Inuktitut to translate this. “Well.”

Thankfully, she seemed to recognize his inability to answer, and took pity on him after several long seconds. “Not—good.”

“Not?”

The displeased face she made only emphasized her dislike, as did the way she pointed at the plate, with a sharp jab of her fingers. _“Tukisivit? Aqturijuq.”_

James let out a sigh. Christ. Why had he come here alone, knowing he did not speak the language? “I don’t know what that means.”

_“Maittuq.”_ She pointed to the tray again. _“Mamariviuk?”_

“Well. You do make an excellent point.” He grimaced as he glanced down at the congealing mass. Small wonder she did not care for the meal. It looked unappetizing even to him, and he was supposed to be an Englishman’s Englishman. “We can bring you other food, if you like. Dried meat. More vegetables.”

Again, the gesture, paired now with a tap of her fingertips to her heart.  _ “Mikijumik.” _

“I will see what I can do, my lady,” said James, still disappointed in his inability to pick up the language, or communicate a point. “You have my word.”

 

##

 

When James asked Wall if it were possible for Lady Silence to have adjusted rations, Wall took the question as a slight against his cooking and broke down into tears at the thought of having displeased his Captain, leaving James in the hideous position of comforting his cook the same way he assumed a mother might comfort a babe in arms––whispering soothing words about canned gravy and watery oatmeals for nearly ten minutes until the man broke into a quavering smile.

After confirming Lady Silence was to be fed dried meat and simple broth from now on, James put on his slops and made for  _ Terror  _ in a haze of exhaustion, hoping Francis would not notice his dispirited temper.

“Sit down right now,” was the greeting he received instead, the second Francis clapped eyes on his bare face. “That’s an order.”

At least Francis waited until Jopson had departed before asking his first question. “Are you not sleeping, James?”

“Christ. Is it so obvious?”

“Not to the men, I think.” Francis cleared his throat, shuffled in his chair. “But whatever you think of me, I’m not a fool.”

“I don’t think that.”

“Then tell me what troubles you. It—our positions here were designed so that each man might help lift burdens from his fellow officers. Do you trust me with that task, at least?”

“Of course I do,” James finally answered, staring at his hands. He wanted to grasp Francis’s jacket and hold on tightly, tether himself to the ground. But he could not force himself to reach out, knowing that Francis was not compelled to return such gestures. “It’s only—trivial matters, Francis. No cause for life or death. This need not be your concern.”

“James, if a matter on this expedition concerns you to the point of losing sleep, then it concerns me, also,” said Francis very firmly. He startled upright in his chair after uttering this sentence; perhaps the vehemence was a surprise to him, as well. “I would not force you to tell me anything you did not deem important, but you must know that I—we are meant to guide each other here. And it is our duty to take these charges seriously.”

Now that his attention to duty had been questioned, James felt compelled to speak up. “Francis, I am always available to you if you should need—”

“No, none of that. Stop—bloody martyring yourself on my behalf! James,  _ I  _ want to help  _ you _ . I am always here for you, in any capacity. Will—if you should—want that, obviously.”

“I would not even know where to begin,” James finally said, carding both hands through his hair in lieu of reaching out for Francis’s hand the way he craved. “I mean, you must think me an idiot to be so unmoored. Well. Strictly speaking, I am not unmoored, only—tired.” His eyes threatened to fill, and he quickly blinked back the prickling feeling in his eyes and throat until he was certain he was composed. At least his voice remained steady, if rather small, when he spoke again. “Francis, I am just so tired to-day.”

“Then you will rest,” Francis said, placing one hand over James’s forearm. “Le Vesconte can take over for a day or two. Who knows — perhaps you are just catching cold.”

“Perhaps so.”

James wanted desperately to put his head down on the table, have Francis place that same hand around his shoulders or even to stroke his hair, but such intimacies were impossible. And would probably not be genuine even if for some strange reason, he could coax them out. Exhaling a mournful sigh, he sat up. “Think I will return to  _ Erebus  _ now.”

As slow as if trailing his fingers through water, Francis finally pulled his hand away from James’s wrist.

 

##

 

Rest should have been an excellent prescription. Instead, it left James confined to his berth, completely unable to avoid the continued malaise that had gripped his men. They visited him in droves, each leaving him more elaborate tokens than the last. One seaman tried to rip the shirt from his own back to place around James’s shoulders, claiming it would help keep him from fever. Several of the ship’s boys sobbed like children at the thought of their strong captain catching so much as a sneeze. Meanwhile, Goodsir deposited bundle after bundle of an odd yellow flowering shrub around the room in an attempt to bring cheer to the berth, based on something his mother had done when he was a boy.

No one asked him questions of any substance. They did not even truly register his replies, simply used them as a conversational foil to offset their various despondencies. They blushed and smiled and stared at him as if he were the most interesting person in the world.

By the evening, James hated them all for it.

It was merely a moment of weakness, he told himself over and over, as he swiped at his snotty nose and damp cheeks with his shirtsleeve. To weep over something so ridiculous as  _ his men loving him too much.  _ But he had never wanted their love in this manner, through some sort of grotesque forced playacting. Not when they loved him to the point of abandoning reason and sense. Not when the love they expressed was hollow and false and just – wrong. Based on nothing he’d done or could ever do.

Muffling a fresh sob with the back of his hand, James had decided to abandon the rest of the night to self-indulgent lacrimosa when he heard someone stirring in the outer cabin. And then he jumped up, trying to dash his tears away with one hand while pulling on his dressing gown.

“Hello?”

“Only me,” came the answer, as Francis peered around the door, eyebrows rising in surprise. “You’re—crying?”

James was so damned relieved to see him that his knees wobbled, and he sank down into his chair as a new wave of tears consumed him.  _ “No.”  _

Good Christ, Francis had now seen him weeping. It was the worst thing ever to have happened to him on board a ship, including the time he was mauled by dear Nebet.

“The hell you aren’t.” Francis crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me what’s wrong. Now.”

The full story came pouring out of James in an instant.

“In truth, I-I don’t know what to do.” Once he had ceased his explanation, James ran both hands through his hair, clutching at the roots in desperation. “The men are all—I mean, I fear we will never—”

Walking closer, Francis took a seat on the edge of the desk. “A little bird told me you tossed a can of the sirloin off the quarterdeck yesterday. I suppose this, then, is the cause.”

“The cause is I was tired of  _ eating _ it!”

“Ah. And the thinking behind such reasoning would be…?”

“You don’t understand.” James’s voice wobbled. “Francis, the men actually respect you, whereas if they truly knew my character, they should certainly abandon all pretense of—of esteeming me in such a dramatic and vocal fashion!”

“Why should they not esteem you? You have been a good leader. They have lived and worked with you all these months.”

“But they don’t know me,” whispered James, as two silent tears coursed down his cheeks. “‘M no great hero. I’m not even fully English. I am nothing, Francis, without name or title or great country house. Even a country, for that matter. All I have is what I’ve cobbled together and it––’s not enough.” He swallowed hard. “Never will be.”

Francis put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed it hard enough to sting. “Oh, James.”

“Well.” James sniffed, and glanced up, although he could not yet meet Francis’s eyes. “Absent father gambling away his fortunes. Carrying on affairs with—with local women. Not  the sort of tale that wins you the Admiralty’s love, in the end.”

“Then write another one,” said Francis, after several long seconds.

James stared at him.

“Hang the goddamned Admiralty and their small-minded judgments. Mine your courage from a different story, James. One about a self-made Navy man, who––who did not let his father’s crimes become his own. Who fought bravely in many battles and gained his men’s respect through utter indomitability.” He brought up his other hand to James’s shoulder, squeezed them both, now. “The sort of man who kept a cheetah as a ship’s cat, or––or leapt first over the wall at Shangkiang, only to be shot in the bloody spine by a group of bloody Tartars.”

_ “Francis.” _

“Tell anyone that tale in the spirit of friendship. And brotherhood. And you shall see what they say, hm? You’ll glimpse the genuine love that man has for you. Truly.”

James did not know whether he was laughing or weeping, now; all he could do was sit with his head bowed, choking on his gratitude. When he glanced up again, he saw Francis was tilting his head to better glimpse his face, and startled in his chair, his eyes accidentally flickering to the  _ Terror  _ Captain’s mouth. “Francis, I should like that very much.”

“Then we shall make it so.” Francis squeezed his shoulders again, then drew James into a genuine embrace; James shuddered in relief at the touch. He was only a man; he could not help that Francis’s tender manner was so comforting.

Sniffing, James fisted his hands in Francis’s jacket, and buried his face in the man’s collar, inhaling lye and gunpowder and tobacco smoke and some indefinable emollient he could not put a name to; whatever it was, it was pleasant and rich and made him think of autumn leaves. He expected Francis to push him off after a moment or two, or to withdraw with some sputtered excuse, but the  _ Terror  _ Captain simply held him fast, stroking one hand up and down his back, saying little.

James clung to Francis for a long time; long enough that he heard only the sound of the ice combined with Francis’s steady breathing. He allowed himself to take comfort in this embrace for much longer than was strictly necessary, so it was not until James sighed and raised his head that Francis patted his shoulder, and cleared his throat at last.

“Why do you have so bloody many Arctic poppies in your berth?”

“I—don’t know.” James sat up, peered around. Yellow-tipped bundles and stems hung from every nail and lay on every flat surface. “The men brought them.”

“How long have they been here?”

“Hours, if that. But I do not know where they procured them. Why—”

“They’re  _ toxic,  _ James.” Francis took up a handkerchief from his pocket, and picked up the nearest bundle, depositing it into the empty chamber pot. “Not deadly, mind you, but—”

“What if they were ingested?” asked James, already pulling on his waistcoat.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Francis stared at him, tossed another bundle down into the chamber pot. “That wouldn’t be good, obviously.”

“Of course not.” James let out a despairing groan as he finished buttoning the garment. “Augh. We may have an answer to our current malaise problem.”

 

##

 

_“Igutsat niqingit,”_ Silence confirmed, when shown the flower in question. Pointing to her heart, she glanced at Francis, and then James. _“Maittuq.”_

“Literal translation is bumblebee food,” explained Francis, as Silence elaborated in Inuktitut. “She says that if you ingest it, it hurts one’s heart, although the symptoms may be literal or figurative. Can’t tell.”

“Birds and bees,” added James, as the reason for such strange behavior dawned on him. “Francis, perhaps it has been—?”

Clearly, Francis had come to a similar conclusion. “Yes—I’ll speak to Wall now. Find Goodsir. And have the men bring you every last fucking bit they have; I don’t care if they’ve pressed the damn petals between the fucking pages of their grandmother’s Bibles, but we’ll not have them making themselves sick another minute.”

“Thank you,” he added to Silence, who tilted her head in a way that said she knew his gratitude was genuine.

 

##

 

Two days after the great purge of Arctic poppies from the ship, James awoke from a long, heavy sleep to find himself alone in the berth. A quick dart into the outer cabin proved nothing was amiss; Bridgens had left him a pot of still-piping-hot coffee on a tray, as well as a note explaining he was helping the other stewards with clean-up in the wardroom, and would return shortly.

James dressed himself, dawdled as long as he dared, and finally emerged into the greater orlop, bracing himself for a deluge of false compliments and starry-eyed smiles.

Instead, he heard only passing chatter and the heavy tread of boots on planks. The men active and at their posts. The officers calling instructions as needed.

No handmade altars blocking the cabin door. No excessive fawning.

Relieved, he went back inside, and had no sooner poured himself a cup of coffee than he heard Francis’s footsteps at the door.

“Fitzjames?”

“Here,” called James, and smiled in relief when he caught Francis’s quirked eyebrow, placing the coffee pot to one side. “I am fetching my own coffee this morning.”

“Evidently so. I passed Bridgens and the stewards on the way in. Apparently Hoar managed to spill grits all over Hodgson as well as the floor, not five minutes into breakfast.”

James stifled a laugh behind one hand, imagining poor Hodgson covered head to toe in sticky ground cornmeal. “That is—very unfortunate.”

Smirking, Francis joined James at the captain’s table. “Knowing Hodgson, he caused the mishap himself.”

“Likely, yes. But are you all right here? I can have Bridgens fetch us some more—”

“James.” And suddenly, Francis’s free hand encircled James’s bare wrist, one thumb brushing over the fine bones in his forearm. “Are  _ you _ all right?”

“I—er.” James could not account for the blush that now coloured his heated cheeks, nor the way his heart sped up at this simple touch. “Yes?”

“You aren’t certain?” Francis smiled so widely that it showed off the gap in his teeth. “Shall I ask you again in ten minutes?”

He had still not let go of James’s wrist. James flushed even redder when he realized it, and quickly said, “No, I am. Ah. Slept better last night, anyway.”

“Well, we can both be glad of that.” Francis smiled at him again, softer this time. “I was beginning to worry.”

“Oh.” Without warning, the notion hit James like a full sledge. Francis worried about him. Francis was not here because of some damned Arctic poppy debacle, but because he was _worried_ about James. Francis liked him and worried about him. “Well, I’m—fine now. Not fine, I mean, but—better. Especially when you’re here.”

Francis turned pink from the back of his neck up to the tips of his ears, and he squeezed James’s arm very briefly before turning away, and picking up the coffee pot.

“Here. Drink some of this, for god’s sake. If I know you, you’ve skipped breakfast again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the Arctic poppy is vaguely poisonous. Reports vary as to how much but I figured that was as good an excuse as any to make it have Bad Lovesick Pollen!
> 
> Inuktitut glossary:  
> “Numaagijara.” - It makes me sad.  
> “Tukisivit? Aqturijuq.” - Do you understand? Unfit.  
> “Maittuq. Mamarivsiuk?” - It hurts. Do you like the taste of it?  
> "Mikijumik.” - A little bit.


End file.
